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Literature Text
"Home is where the heart is,"
your mother always told you,
because in your house, you are loved.
"When in Rome,"
your father always advised you,
because in your house, your family has standards to uphold.
But some days, "home" might as well be "Rome"
for all the comfort your house holds, and
sometimes, "misplace" and "displace" feel like
shades of grey in a black-and-white textbook.
If home is where your heart is,
then tell me
where you belong--
Your mother, who taught you to open your mind and your heart,
never warned you about the danger
of giving of yourself too freely.
You know where your heart is
as surely as you know that
you can't make homes out of people.
No more could you bring them back
than could you pick up the pieces they scattered.
Misplaced, then, as in
out of line,
out of order,
out of context--
pieces of you that are no longer yours,
displaced by the holes where your life was uprooted.
Do as the Romans do, then,
and adapt, learn to fit in;
let new seeds take root in your barren spaces.
Redefine yourself, and find a place to belong,
a place to call home.
your mother always told you,
because in your house, you are loved.
"When in Rome,"
your father always advised you,
because in your house, your family has standards to uphold.
But some days, "home" might as well be "Rome"
for all the comfort your house holds, and
sometimes, "misplace" and "displace" feel like
shades of grey in a black-and-white textbook.
If home is where your heart is,
then tell me
where you belong--
Your mother, who taught you to open your mind and your heart,
never warned you about the danger
of giving of yourself too freely.
You know where your heart is
as surely as you know that
you can't make homes out of people.
No more could you bring them back
than could you pick up the pieces they scattered.
Misplaced, then, as in
out of line,
out of order,
out of context--
pieces of you that are no longer yours,
displaced by the holes where your life was uprooted.
Do as the Romans do, then,
and adapt, learn to fit in;
let new seeds take root in your barren spaces.
Redefine yourself, and find a place to belong,
a place to call home.
Literature
Dead Bodies Don't Cry
i.
You are born with twisted feet
and a pockmark on your chest.
Your poor mother is drenched in sweat,
straining to breathe,
thanking God that it's over.
She cradles you in her arms
and kisses your forehead with curved lips.
Your father reaches out to hold you
but has to pause because
your mother will not release you yet.
The family pays a visit,
hovering in awe, praising, laughing.
You look around for someone to blame.
ii.
When you learn to write
you use all the wrong letters
because you feel sorry for the ones
that get left out, like X and Z.
And you wear mismatched clothes
because you don't like the idea that
only certain colors "go t
Literature
i'm not an artist
we do not belong in boxes
and bags and books or
words,
and we do not sit contently
in wordsworth and shakespeare
and blake, burns, and brownings
or in the cold stiff bones
of raleigh's of long ago;
no--
we infect,
detect, and re-select
a virus--a disease,
a germ in every verse and line;
the first signs of
foolish waitings under
bridges and scolding parents
and melodrama
and nothing to signify at all
yet--
we are the blood of nations
and the heart of men
and the love of every
rhetorist and sentimist
to come;
we dance through the ballrooms of
the age and chat with
higher minds
we shake hands with heros
and the homeless, dirty
type
Literature
Spineless
My mother always told me I was born with four spines. They stay there, side by side, in my ramrod straight back, the reason for my very correct posture. So when my back began to arch, people noticed.
My parents were first. You look different, they would suppose as I would approach every morning for breakfast. Is something wrong? My mother would question. Are you ill? My father would ask.
I had a gift with the vague and I used it to my only advantage in this scenario. Because telling them the truth would be a lot more devastating. How would I tell them about the fact that my bones, my spine, the very part of me they admired most, was depreci
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A translation from Spanish of a poem written this past summer in response to a class prompt at the language immersion program I attended, the question being: What does home mean to you?
The original text is submitted separately and can be found here: del otro mundo
Please do not use without my permission.
Comments are welcome and greatly appreciated. Any feedback is great to hear. What can I do better?
The original text is submitted separately and can be found here: del otro mundo
Please do not use without my permission.
Comments are welcome and greatly appreciated. Any feedback is great to hear. What can I do better?
© 2015 - 2024 violetense
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